


Calamine

by LostCol



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Poison Ivy - Freeform, Schmoop, Sickfic, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:47:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27202676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostCol/pseuds/LostCol
Summary: Justin nurses Brian through a horrible case of poison ivy.
Relationships: Brian Kinney/Justin Taylor (Queer as Folk)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 40





	Calamine

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Calamine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26291623) by [LostCol](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostCol/pseuds/LostCol). 



> I wrote this first for the CMBYN fandom, but I couldn’t stop wondering how Brian would handle an unsightly, uncomfortable rash. So I figured why not find out, and I ended up having a lot of fun rewriting it for QAF. I set this a few years down the line, when Brian’s had a bit more emotional growth and is ever so slightly more able to express his feelings.  
> I’m not a doctor, but I had a number of hella bad poison ivy reactions when I was younger, before I started avoiding anything leafy and green like the plague. So take all medical information in here with a grain of salt (as always, obviously, it’s fanfiction). But, also know that all of the recommended treatments in here, as well as everything that happens and has happened to Brian involving poison ivy have been recommended to and happened to me. Yikes.

“God _damn_ it, Justin!”

Oh shit.

Justin lets his bag fall to the floor and places his keys on the counter while he toes off his shoes.

“Yes, darling?” he calls, heading toward the shouting. He knows he’s risking his ass by being cute, but he really can’t bring himself to be worried. Bounding up the steps to the bedroom, he stops in the bathroom doorway.

“What’s up?”

Brian’s standing in front of the sink, twisting every which way as if trying to see every inch of his shirtless body in the mirror. Which, nothing Justin hasn’t done before, but Brian looks a little more pissed than Justin generally does when studying his boyfriend’s perfectly toned physique.

“I told you it was poison ivy!” Brian growls, startling Justin out of a burgeoning daydream.

“Poison… oh. Oh _shit_.”

“Yeah exactly, ‘oh shit’! Look at me! I’m covered in it!”

Raking his eyes over Brian’s body (and trying to tone down the lust long enough to actually _look_ ), Justin sees the red rash spread over Brian’s stomach, chest, back, neck, and arms. What look like tiny, white, pus-filled bubbles are scattered throughout, and a little bit has creeped up onto his cheek. And fuck, he already has some stubble, and now he won’t be able to shave for days. Weeks? Justin feels a flash of excitement at the imminent arrival of bearded Brian. (Followed by a small flash of guilt, he’s not a complete asshole. But still. _Bearded Brian_.)

But, back to the matter at hand.

“Shit, Brian. I’m sorry, I didn’t—I really thought it wasn’t!”

“Yeah, _clearly_ those bullshit camping trips Craig took you on really stuck!”

“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to chase Gus around that field.”

“Yeah but—”

“—and _you’re_ the one who shrugged and took off running when I said I wasn’t a hundred percent sure what is was!”

“Well, yeah, but—"

“— _and_ _you’re_ the genius who asked the guy who’s lived in a WASPy suburb and a downtown loft what he thought some random leaves were.”

“You used to go camping! You sang us all that idiotic campfire song when you got wasted at Emmett’s birthday last year!”

Justin flushes at the memory of not just singing – drunkenly, at the top of his lungs – but trying to teach everyone else to sing along. At least they were all mostly as drunk as he was.

“Yeah, well obviously remembering some dumb song doesn’t make me an expert in—”

“Fine! Okay, fine, Justin. I get it.”

Justin’s face softens when he sees how uncomfortable Brian looks. “I really am sorry.”

Brian sighs, “I know. Fuck, I hope Gus didn’t get it.”

“Crap, me too. We’ll have to call Mel and Lindz.” Justin shrugs sympathetically, “What can I do?”

“Okay, well. Don’t laugh.”

“Why would I laugh?”

“I realize normally I’d be the last one to suggest this, but I’m going to go to the doctor.”

Justin’s face falls. “Shit, it’s that bad?”

Brian shakes his head, hating the sympathy and worry flickering across Justin’s face. “No. But it’s all the fuck over me, and I got it really bad a few times as a kid. Like, _really_ bad, like, steroid shot in the ass bad.”

Justin’s staring at him with his eyebrows practically in his hairline, so Brian raises his own and shrugs. “So—”

“Shit, Brian! You have to be more careful.”

“Look, it’s fine, I just want to get ahead of it, and I figure a doctor can give me something stronger than I can get over the counter.”

“Okay, so have you called the doctor yet? Yours does same-day sick visits, right? Do you know what time the office closes?”

“Not yet. I didn’t realize how bad it was until right before you got home.”

Brian pulls on a shirt (while trying not to smile like a goddamn idiot at how quickly Justin flipped from indignant to concerned), then he calls his doctor while Justin calls Lindsay to check on Gus.

Brian grabs his keys as soon as he hangs up. “They can see me in 20 minutes if I can get there.”

“Oh, great! Gus is fine, according to Lindsay, but she’ll keep an eye out.”

“Thank fuck,” Brian says in relief, stopping and turning at the door, intending to say that he’ll bring food home and is there anything in particular Justin wants? But he hesitates when he sees Justin sliding his shoes on. “Heading out?”

Justin rolls his eyes and says, “I’m going with you,” in a tone suggesting that Brian’s an idiot for questioning him.

They stare at each other for a few seconds until Brian shrugs and walks out the door, leaving Justin to lock up and catch up with him. Normally he’d say no fucking way, but he’s under time pressure and he knows how stubborn Justin can be, especially when it comes to Brian’s wellbeing. 

“Thanks, I guess, but you’re just going to be bored. And it’s not like I’m sick, I’m not going to wilt on the ride over if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Don’t be an asshole. You know you’d come if it were me and I asked you to.”

“Well yeah, exactly my—”

“Doesn’t matter that you’d never ask,” Justin says, fixing Brian with a _look_. “Poor you, stuck with a caring boyfriend. Such a martyr,” Justin scoffs, and Brian just rolls his eyes. Sassy as fuck, this kid.

In the car, Justin tries to distract Brian by telling him about his lunch with his mom a few hours earlier, which had turned into shopping for a new shirt with his mom, which had turned into his mom almost buying him a heinously preppy fall coat before he’d been able to stop her. Despite the brief look of horror Brian flashes him when he describes the coat in detail, he can tell Brian is only half listening as he presses the hand not on the steering wheel against his body and rubs in slow, firm circles, trying to relieve the itching without actually scratching. After watching this for a few minutes, Justin finds he can’t bite his tongue any longer and says, “You probably don’t want to break the bubbles,” and he reaches out to grab Brian’s wrist.

“They’re pustules, and NO— _don’t touch me, Justin!_ ” Brian barks, jerking away and pressing his shoulder against the door in a vain attempt to be out of Justin’s reach, the car swerving slightly in the lane.

“Jesus, what?” Justin yanks has arm back in surprise. “I was just going to touch your sleeve.”

Brian clears his throat, a light flush coloring his cheeks. “No, it’s bad enough that I have it, I don’t want to risk you getting it.”

“So, we’re just not going to touch for days?”

…

“Wait, but it’s not even contagious. It’s just the, like, the oil from the plant, isn’t it? And you took a shower last night.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Brian sighs, “but I don’t know about the pustules. Let me check with the doctor before you touch me, okay? I haven’t had it in a long time, and your skin is so fucking sensitive.”

Justin sighs in resigned defeat. “Yeah, okay. But maybe stop rubbing?”

“Ugh I _know_ , it’s just… Christ, it’s _so fucking itchy_.”

Justin would laugh at the somehow pissed of _and_ pleading look on Brian’s face if he— Oh shit. Wait. That huff of laughter wasn’t supposed to come out, and now Brian looks _very_ offended.

“Aww come on, you look so sad and uncomfortable and I was thinking this is probably how you looked when you were a kid and Joan told you to stop scratching.”

“Hah. If it was anyone, it was Claire. I remember her helping me with the calamine lotion. Joan stuck me in an oatmeal bath and called it a day.”

“She did not.”

“Yup. Running me a chunky bath was apparently the extent of Joan’s nursing duties. Although she did make me that chocolate chocolate chip cake the time I got it so bad I looked like the Blob. Jack took one look at me and doubled over laughing, but at least I got cake, right?”

“Brian,” Justin says softly, running his fingers lightly down Brian’s thigh despite Brian tensing up again. “I really don’t think I’m going to get it through your jeans. Is it on your legs, too?”

“No, thank fuck. My entire upper body is bad enough,” he says, abruptly swinging into the parking lot of a tall brick building and throwing the car into park. “Come on, we’re here.”

True to the front desks’ promise, pretty much as soon as they sit down in the waiting room, Brian’s name is called. He stands right up, ready to get this over with, but he stops dead when Justin stands up beside him. On the one hand, Brian is a grown-ass man who definitely does _not_ need his boyfriend’s moral support for a stupid rash. _No fucking way._ On the other hand, Justin will definitely argue with him, even here in public. And also… yeah, okay, maybe he doesn’t hate the idea of Justin being back there with him. He doesn’t fucking like shots, okay? And Justin knows it.

Justin eventually bumps his hip to get him moving, so he shoots him a grimace they both know is mostly for show and leads him into the back.

After a few cursory questions from a nurse (who determines that Brian can just remove his shirt; he probably wouldn’t have bothered with the itchy paper gown anyway), the doctor comes in. She goes over his history with poison ivy and other allergens, and then in answer to Justin’s (slightly exasperated) question, she assures them that no, Justin won’t catch it if Brian has already showered off the urushiol (the oil from the plant that causes the rash, because yes, Brian, you do have to touch the oil directly).

“Even if the pustules burst?”

“Even if the pustules burst; the fluid inside is just pus, it’s not contagious.”

“Sexy,” Brian mutters, and Justin rolls his eyes.

She does recommend washing the clothes he wore to the park in hot water and wearing gloves when they do so, because urushiol is a stubborn bugger, and Justin sends up a prayer of thanks that Brian is a fastidious neat freak who’s constitutionally incapable of leaving dirty clothes laying around. The doctor examines the extent of the rash, touching Brian lightly over his chest and back with gloved hands, tilting his head back and forth to see how bad his neck and face are. She sits on her stool to make some notes, and then spins back toward them.

“Okay, I have a recommendation that you’re probably not going to like.”

Justin pales slightly but resists the urge to move closer to Brian, knowing he won’t appreciate the implication that he – _gasp_ – might need moral support.

“But based on your history, I think it’s a good idea to give you a steroid shot. The rash is covering a good portion of your body, and you have a history of severe reactions. And since you were only exposed yesterday, you’re looking at up to three more weeks until the rash is totally gone. The steroid shot will help calm the reaction.”

“I thought you might say that,” Brian says, resigned, and he takes a deep breath. “Do your worst, doc.”

He turns to Justin, who’s looking at him with huge eyes, and once he has Brian’s attention, he mutters, “Shit, Bri, I feel like a dick now.”

“I’ll just go get the shot ready, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Brian makes an affirmative grunt, flicking his gaze back to the doctor for a moment.

As soon as the door closes behind her, Justin groans, “Fuck, a shot? I figured they did that before because you were a kid.” He groans, “I’m such an asshole.”

“Stop, I’m fine. Seriously, it’s not a big deal, but she’s right. The rash can last for weeks, and it’s on half my body, and it’s fucking miserable, so I’ll do whatever I can to make it suck less.”

The doctor bustles back in then, carrying a syringe in a little dish, and she quickly goes over exactly what she’s giving Brian, reiterating that it won’t make the rash go away, but will hopefully help it calm down and dry up more quickly. She picks up an alcohol swab and looks between the two of them.

“It goes in your buttocks, so I don’t know if you want Justin to—”

“He can stay,” Brian cuts in, and he hops off the table and unbuckles his belt, unbuttons his fly, and pushes his jeans down over the swell of his ass. “Nothing he hasn’t seen before,” he says with a smirk in Justin’s direction, and Justin’s suddenly worried he’s going to strain an eyeball with how much he’s rolling his eyes today.

Brian leans against the side of the exam table and rests his forearms on it, and when the doctor starts cleaning his skin with the alcohol swab, he sucks in a breath and flicks his eyes up to Justin, who’s watching him intently. He turns his palm up in silent invitation. A small smile tugs at Justin’s lips as he moves across the table from Brian, taking his sweaty hand in both of his own and giving it a reassuring squeeze. Whatever Brian’s looks and general gruff demeanor broadcast to the world, the man absolutely hates needles, and he’s long since come to terms with swallowing the shame of wanting his partner to hold his hand through the pain and indignity of an ass shot.

Brian gasps and sucks in a breath when the needle goes in, and holds it for the duration. He lets out a rush of air when the doctor pulls the needle back out, and he blushes up to his ears when he looks down to see his giant hand squeezing the everloving shit out of Justin’s much more valuable ones. Justin laughs and shakes his hands out when Brian releases them with a sheepish grin, and he asks “You okay?” softly enough that the doctor can pretend not to hear. Still blushing, Brian just nods and pulls his pants back up.

“I suggest you pick up some calamine lotion or something similar on your way home, and I’d recommend buying some plain, unscented Dove soap.”

Justin clarifies, “Dove specifically?”

The doctor nods. “It’s rich and moisturizing, which is important because the rash is very dry, and since it’s unscented, it won’t irritate the skin further. It’s good for any kind of skin irritation.”

“Okay, thanks. We’ll do that.”

Brian raises an eyebrow at Justin apparently deciding to take over his appointment, but he stays silent. As much as he might grumble about it, Justin wanting to take care of him isn’t unappreciated.

“Anything else we can do for the discomfort?”

“You can try oatmeal baths. A lot of people don’t bother because they’re a little messy, but some people swear by them. And an over-the-counter anti-inflammatory will help with the inflammation. Generally, just keeping the skin cool and moisturized will help.”

When Justin opens his mouth again, Brian decides enough is enough, because once Justin’s on a roll, he’s unlikely to stop. So he cuts in with a sarcastic, “Guess we’ll have to pick up a kiddie pool on the way home for those oatmeal baths, huh? Thanks though, doc, we’ll try some of that.” He’s starting to be really uncomfortable, and he just wants to go home, strip naked, move the coffee table aside, and rub himself all over the rug for a little relief.

“Any time. Come back if it’s still bothering you in three weeks, but I don’t see any reason why it won’t have cleared up by then.”

“Great, thank you so much!” Justin says, way too cheerfully in Brian’s opinion.

As soon as the doctor steps out, Brian turns to Justin and chuckles. “I can ask my own questions, you know.”

“You _can_ , but you weren’t. And I want to cover all our bases,” Justin says with a shrug and an eyebrow raise that’s just daring Brian to argue. But Brian’s no fool (well, okay, so his track record isn’t the best, but he’s at least learned to stop intentionally provoking Justin), so he just smiles and wraps an arm around Justin’s shoulders, and tows him out of the office.

An hour later, they _finally_ arrive back at the loft, practically staggering under the weight of all the calamine lotion, Dove soap, ibuprofen, and the tabletop fan Justin insisted they buy. The fan, because, “this will feel good when the rash feels hot, right? Right.” And Brian had just carried the basket around the store, rolling his eyes and trying not to scratch while Justin loaded them up with a small hospital’s worth of supplies. They were, however, sans kiddie pool and oatmeal bath, much to Brian’s relief. He’d been worried when Justin paused in front of the cartons of oatmeal bath, but before he’d had time to formulate an articulate argument against it, Justin had shrugged and moved on.

They dump the _five_ bags on the counter before Justin turns to Brian with that no nonsense look on his face that usually does things to Brian’s—

Yup. There it is.

“Yes, darling?” he asks, trying his best to leer at Justin, even though he’s tired and itchy and sore, and all of those shitty sensations, sadly, are taking precedence over any flickers of arousal that sparked to life at that look in Justin’s eye. Ignoring the pained leer, Justin says, “You should take a shower with the Dove soap while I make dinner. I was going to try the new panini press, remember?”

“I was going to help with that though,” Brian argues, futilely.

“Ha! You were not. Come on, don’t be a baby about it, it’ll help.”

“I’m going to smell like a middle-aged woman battling dry skin.”

“And yet my big, strong, manly lover will be using it to soothe his tight, itchy skin. Get over it,” Justin says, pushing up onto his toes to smack a kiss on Brian’s non-rashy cheek. “Use those famous ad man skills of yours to spin it into something sexy.”

Brian rolls his eyes and gives him a sarcastic salute before grabbing a box of soap out of one of the shopping bags, turning on his heel, and heading for the bathroom, grumbling pointlessly all the way.

Justin shakes his head, a small smile on his lips, and starts pulling out the panini press and the ingredients he’ll need, arranging everything on the counter and pulling down some plates so they’ll be quick to whip up once he starts. For about the hundredth time, he finds himself grateful that Brian’s gotten lax about his bullshit no carbs after 7 rule, because it’s made both dining out together and cooking for him far more enjoyable. He fiddles with the ingredients and skims over the directions about temperatures and timing, trying to kill some time before he goes to check on Brian in the hopes that he’ll actually be _in_ the shower by the time he gets in there. Justin chuckles to himself at how melodramatic Brian gets when he’s forced to do anything that might risk his precious reputation. He listens carefully while he futzes around the kitchen, and after the shower has been running for a few minutes, he figures it’s safe to go in.

“Hey, how’s it feel?” he asks, knocking on the glass enclosure.

Brian looks a little sad soaping up with the inexpensive, drugstore soap, and he trains blatantly manipulative puppy dog eyes on Justin before saying, “It’d feel a lot better if I had someone in here to wash my back.”

Justin rolls his eyes _again_ and says, “Would you like some company, my poor sexy invalid?”

Brian lets out a laugh and snarks, “Get your ass in here.”

Justin strips and joins the patient in the shower, taking the proffered bar of soap and gently washing Brian down with it. Brian’s actually glaring at the soap with a hilarious sneer of disdain, made worse by the fact that it actually is very creamy and makes a frothy lather. But Justin keeps his mouth shut and just chuckles to himself, because he likes his balls intact, thank you very much.

He’s a little taken aback at how widespread the poison ivy is, now that he’s seeing it completely uncovered and on display, and he feels a pang of guilt. Which is exacerbated a few minutes later when he’s drying Brian off with their softest, fluffiest towel, trying to be as gentle as he can, but Brian is still flinching and wincing. He’s obviously trying not to – which Justin hates, by the way, can’t Brian just let him see that he’s hurting? Look at the complete and utter mess Justin’s been in front of _him_ over the years, and Brian has yet to cut and run – and Justin’s heart clenches seeing him in pain. “I’m sorry you’re hurting, Bri,” he says softly, running the back of his hand over Brian’s cheek, and noticing now, too, how exhausted Brian looks. Brian stares at him for a long second before letting his eyes go soft, and he tilts his head into Justin’s touch, closing his eyes and letting himself sink into the comfort for a moment. 

Justin brushes back the hair that’s plastered across Brian’s forehead and gives him a soft smile, lingering for a moment before deciding to stop pressing his luck – and stretching Brian’s emotional capacity. He flicks the towel at Brian’s legs, spins on his heal, throws a cheeky smile over his shoulder, and heads into the bedroom to grab some clothes. He quickly throws on sweats and one of Brian’s tank tops, then he rummages through the dresser to find Brian’s softest hang around clothes.

“Are you itchy?” he asks when Brian emerges from the bathroom a minute later, naked and toweling off his hair. “Do you want me to put the calamine lotion on you before you get dressed?”

“No, it feels okay right now.” He hesitates before sighing and continuing, “I will grudgingly admit that the Dove soap felt really nice.”

Justin snorts. “I’ll refrain from saying I told you so,” and hands him his clothes.

When he’s dressed, Justin parks Brian on the couch with a tumbler of Beam and quickly makes the paninis, loving every second that he’s using the panini press Emmett gave him for his last birthday.

They demolish the sandwiches—

“Wow, Emmylou really knew what he was talking about, huh?”

—during the first ten minutes of a Gilmore Girls rerun – Justin’s choice, obviously, but he always catches Brian watching closely and smirking in genuine amusement on the rare occasion that Justin puts it on – and by the time the episode ends, Brian’s slumped down on the sofa, nodding off. The end credits startle him awake, and he rubs his eyes and looks around.

“What time is it?”

“Uhhh…” Justin glances at his phone. “9:26.”

“Jesus. I’m exhausted. I think I’m just going to go to bed.”

“Good idea, I’ll join you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Nah, it’s been a long day, I’m tired. I still have to clean up anyway, so I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

While he cleans up the mess in the kitchen, Justin watches Brian climb into bed and settle in through the slats, debating with himself for a minute before he fills up a glass of water and goes up to set it on Brian’s nightstand. Brian smirks up at him, but there’s a hint of a real smile playing around his lips. They both know Brian can damn well get his own water, but they also both know that he’s not exactly known for taking care of himself, and Justin enjoys leaning into the nurse thing when Brian’s sick. What he doesn’t love is going to great lengths to pretend to _not_ be nursing Brian even when Brian’s practically on death’s door, but he’s learned that he has a better chance of Brian giving in when he’s either so sick he can hardly move, or exhausted and therefore (though he’d never admit it) softer. And as much as Brian grumbles about it when he’s in a _mood_ , he does appreciate it. Getting him to internalize that it doesn’t make him weak, however, is an ongoing battle.

By the time Justin finishes locking up for the night, setting the alarm, turning off the lights, Brian is asleep. He’s sprawled on his back across three-quarters of the bed and breathing deeply, with his head turned toward Justin’s pillow. Justin pulls off his clothes and crawls under the covers, debating how to reclaim his side of the bed. He ends up using his feet to carefully push Brian’s left leg back onto his side, then he rolls onto his side facing Brian and wraps his fingers loosely around Brian’s wrist. He places a kiss on Brian’s cheek and then sinks into his pillow, watching the steady rise and fall of Brian’s chest until his eyes slide closed.

Justin wakes up hours later to a greyish, pre-dawn darkness, and he knows something’s wrong the second he awakes. It takes a few minutes for his sluggish brain to catch up to the outside world, and when it does, he realizes that Brian is moving around beside him a bit too much to just be shifting in his sleep. Squinting in the dim light, Justin’s able to make out Brian on his back with his eyes closed, rubbing his back and arms against the sheets while he lets out tiny, quiet moans, miserable little sounds that are barely more than soft rumbles in his chest.

“Brian?” Justin whispers, propping himself up on one arm and reaching out to rest his hand gently on Brian’s shoulder. He isn’t sure if Brian is properly asleep or not, and he doesn’t want to startle him. “Bri?” he says again when there’s no response, shaking his shoulder a little.

Brian groans and blinks up at Justin, and as soon as he’s fully awake, his face pinches in pain.

“Shit, Brian. Is the rash hurting?”

Brian sucks in a breath, and his voice is a little shaky when he says, “I keep waking up, I—it’s so fucking uncomfortable. I can’t stay asleep.” He squeezes his eyes shut and screws up his face, and Justin’s stomach drops.

“Oh, Bri. Okay, umm… hang on, I’ll be right back.”

Justin knows he needs to stop the itching, but he also needs to cool Brian’s skin down. His shoulder felt warm when he touched it, and Justin figures he’s probably flushed from sleep, from the effort of _trying_ to sleep, and from the irritation of the fabric of his clothes dragging across his overly sensitive skin while he writhes between the sheets. So cooling him down is priority one. Justin rushes to the kitchen to unbox the tabletop fan they didn’t bother unpacking last night, and then he grabs their large popcorn bowl from the cupboard. He deposits the fan on the ledge in the bedroom on his way into the bathroom, where he grabs a stack of washcloths and a couple of hand towels from the cabinet and drops them into the bowl, which he then sticks under the tap (and he’s happy that it actually fits – it’s a big-ass popcorn bowl) and lets an inch or so of lukewarm water soak into everything.

Back in the bedroom, Brian is sitting up in bed, concentrating on breathing evenly while he tries to talk himself out of the pain. If he tells himself it doesn’t itch, that it’s just an _interesting_ sensation, but not an _unpleasant_ one, that should work right? Mind over matter and all that. He’s finding that while that may work for an itchy toe when you’re comfortable in bed and don’t want to move (and it totally does, he’s tried it and it’s amazing what the power of the mind can do when you’re determined and just too damn lazy to scratch), but it’s apparently no match for the power of poison ivy.

He looks up hopefully when Justin comes back into the room carrying their popcorn bowl, willing to try anything he has up his sleeve that might give him some relief from the constant, ceaseless discomfort.

“All right. Get naked,” Justin says, setting the bowl down on Brian’s nightstand.

“Uhhh…”

“Just trust me, okay?”

He helps Brian with his shirt, and then he leaves him to kick off his sweats while he pops back into the bathroom to grab one of their large bath sheets. He lays it on the bed in Brian’s spot and then lays one of the damp hand towels from the popcorn bowl in the center of it while Brian watches, skepticism wrinkling his brow.

“Okay, lay down on your back with the hand towel under the rash.”

Understanding flickers in Brian’s eyes, and he flashes Justin a tight smile while he gets himself situated. Once he’s as comfortable as he’s going to be, Justin lays the other hand towel over Brian’s chest and stomach, and then he uses the washcloths to cover the rash where it trails down Brian’s arms and up his neck, pressing them into Brian’s skin gently as he places them. When he’s out of washcloths, he stands back to check his work, and then he glances over at the fan sitting on the ledge with his mouth twisted to the side in thought.

“Oh!”

He hurries back to the bathroom to grab another bath sheet and some ibuprofen. He wishes he’d thought of the ibuprofen earlier, but, hindsight, so he helps Brian tip his head up enough to swallow the pills without dislodging the washcloths, and then he lays the bath sheet over him, nodding to himself in satisfaction. He plugs the fan in and turns it to its lowest setting, pointing it toward Brian’s side of the bed.

“How’s that?”

“Tip it down a little more.”

Justin fiddles for a second and then, “How’s—”

“Oh, yes. That’s perfect.”

Justin smiles and crawls back into bed, snuggling under the covers, and Brian turns his head toward him, looking happier than he has since yesterday morning. “Thank you, Sunshine. You’re too fucking smart.”

Justin chuckles and bumps his forehead against Brian’s shoulder and smirking. “No shit. Always listen to me. Let’s go back to sleep, okay?” A few seconds of silence pass before Justin murmurs, “You should have woken me up.”

Brian sighs, “I know,” because there’s really nothing else to say.

“Stubborn asshole,” Justin mutters, and Brian snorts. There’s no use in arguing about it, because though their friends practically want to saint Justin for putting up with Brian, they’re actually pretty evenly matched when it comes to who can out-stubborn the other.

Brian – and therefore Justin – successfully sleeps for several more hours, and it’s late morning when Justin wakes to find Brian still passed out beside him. He lost the washcloths off one arm when he apparently moved in his sleep so Justin could nestle the top of his head into Brian’s armpit and press his face against his ribs; a position they have never once gone to sleep in but frequently wake up in. Much to Justin’s delight though, everything else is as he arranged it hours earlier.

Brian is shivering slightly in his sleep, so Justin rolls out of bed to turn off the fan and peel the cool cloths off Brian’s skin. He sleeps through the removal of everything from his front, so Justin carefully rolls him onto his side, and while Brian groans and sighs and pulls Justin’s pillow to his chest, he doesn’t wake up. Justin gets rid of the rest of the cloths and towels, and then he pulls the duvet up over Brian and leans down to kiss him softly on the shell of his ear. He gathers everything up and dumps it all in the hamper, and then he tiptoes into the bathroom, quietly closing the door behind him. 

He has a pot of coffee keeping warm and is in the middle of making pancakes when Brian finally emerges from the bedroom, wearing an old pair of sweats and a soft black ribbed tank top that never fails to make Justin’s mouth go dry, and sporting horrific bedhead. He yawns hugely and peers through squinty eyes, as though he isn’t quite awake yet, but he perks up when he smells the fresh coffee.

“Thanks for this morning,” he says, his voice deep and rumbly from sleep, pulling Justin into a one-armed hug and kissing the top of his head.

“Of course. How do you feel now?”

“Shitty, but like slightly less malodorous shit than I would have if you hadn’t worked your magic.”

Justin huffs a laugh. “I can work more magic than damp washcloths…” He trails off and catches Brian’s eye, and they both burst out laughing.

“Are you sure about that?””

Justin chuckles, “Yeah, okay, good point.” Turning off the burner and grabbing the syrup from the fridge, Justin asks, “So do you want to sneer with revulsion at my pancakes and then steal two anyway?”

Brian lowers his brows and gives him a look before sneering, “You know I do, asshole.”

Justin bumps his hip against Brian’s and directs him to a barstool, setting a cup of coffee in front of him. They’re halfway through their pancake stacks – Justin’s drenched in syrup and butter and Brian’s with the sparsest drizzle of syrup – when Brian asks, “Where’d you learn that, anyway?”

Justin looks down at his pancakes, confused, because he’s made them for breakfast dozens of times. And for dinner a few times. And for a post-sex midnight snack once or twice.

“The damp washcloths, the fan.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Justin says around a mouthful of pancake. “The fan just made sense, I mean, haven’t you ever—” He cuts himself off, squinting at Brian, and then shakes his head, laughing. “Of course you haven’t. I was going to say, ‘haven’t you ever sprawled under a fan when you’ve gotten a sunburn?’ I don’t know how it slipped my mind that you’re a bronzed god.”

“Mmm hmm, that’s right.”

Justin gives Brian an exaggerated coquettish smile and takes a sip of coffee, peering at him through his eyelashes. “And I’m…”

Brian grins, and thinks for a moment. “And you’re a… a crock of sunshine, darling,” he drawls with a wink. 

“Ha! Lovely,” Justin exclaims, laughing.

Brian just shrugs with an eye crinkling smirk.

Justin gulps down the last of his coffee, still chuckling. “All right, Shakespeare. Why don’t you take a cool shower and I’ll clean up here and change the sheets. And then we’ll take it easy.”

“Sounds like a plan, C.S.,” Brian says, winking and smacking a kiss on Justin’s cheek on his way to the sink.

“C.S.?”

Brian just laughs and heads toward the bathroom, and he’s just crossed the threshold when Justin laughs and yells, “Crock of Sunshine is not going to be a thing!”

Brian does everything right that day, washing with the Dove soap under a cool stream of water, letting Justin slather calamine lotion all over his rash, putting on soft, loose clothing, and reupping the ibuprofen every four hours. And he DOES. NOT. SCRATCH.

But still, he becomes grumpier and grumpier as the day progresses. He’s tired from a fitful night of sleep, he’s annoyed that he’s still so uncomfortable despite everything he and Justin are doing, and as he always is when he’s not feeling well, he’s fucking pissed about it. Because despite their best efforts, his skin is itchy, hot, and tight, and it looks gruesome, splotchy and puffy and covered in pustules. It’s a serious hit to his vanity, his appearance doing absofuckinglutely nothing for his state of mind.

He ends up snapping at Justin when he clatters a plate unloading the dishwasher in mid-afternoon, and then he doesn’t stop snapping for the rest of the day. He knows it’s unfair, and he feels vaguely guilty literally _as_ he’s doing it, but his nerves are so on edge he can’t help himself. And Justin takes it so annoyingly well that Brian just feels increasingly more resentful as the afternoon drags on, and it just… It isn’t a great day.

For his part, Justin is mellow, quiet, understanding but not stifling. He’s never had poison ivy, and he had chicken pox when he was too young to remember, but he does remember the second-degree sunburn he got all over back, chest, arms, and face the summer he was twelve. And if Brian feels anything like how he felt then – in pain, mad at himself, sort of helpless, uncertain how long he’ll feel like shit, dreading not being able to sleep properly for days – well, he’ll do anything he can to help him feel better. Even if it’s just dealing with Brian’s shitty mood.

So they spend a mostly quiet afternoon on the couch, with Justin supplying food, drinks, painkillers, and lotion as needed. He lets Brian grumble and mumble and give him one-word answers with his eyebrows scrunched low over his eyes, and he bites his tongue when he’s tempted to point out how adorable Brian’s grouchy pout is. By now, he knows how far he can push before Brian will bite his head off.

Needless to say, Brian is surprised later that night when he steps out of his second cool shower of the day to find Justin all ready for him in the bedroom, a bath sheet spread over the bed, the calamine lotion on the nightstand, and a smile on his face.

“Lay down on your stomach, okay?”

Brian raises an eyebrow in question but complies immediately. He’s tired and grumpy, and he doesn’t want to admit that he’s in serious need of some babying right now.

But…

He’s in serious need of some babying right now.

Justin clicks open the cap and squeezes some lotion into his palm. “I had an idea, but I want to know what you think, because I don’t want to make you any more uncomfortable than you already are. I was thinking you can lay down while I put the lotion on so you can try to relax, and then once I’m done, I’ll suck you off.”

Brian’s quiet, and Justin’s just opening his mouth to tell him it’s fine if he’s too uncomfortable for sex right now when Brian turns his head toward him and says incredulously, “Christ, you want to suck me off? After I’ve been an asshole all day? With how gross this fucking rash looks?”

Justin shrugs. “What can I say, I’m a sucker for grossly disfigured men.”

Brian just stares at his, his eyes growing steadily bigger and rounder, and just as Justin’s preparing to backpedal, to point out that _obviously_ he was being facetious, Brian explodes, sitting up so suddenly that Justin takes a startled step back.

“FUCK! FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK, I HAVE A FUCKING PRESENTATION ON MONDAY!”

“Well, okay—”

“FOR A GODDAMN SKINCARE LINE! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO PITCH A CAMPAIGN FOR A GODDAMN _SKINCARE LINE_ IN 36 HOURS LOOKING LIKE THE THING THAT CRAWLED UP FROM THE SEWER?!”

“Bri—”

“Oh CHRIST. How am I supposed to trick like this?”

“Brian, you’re still—”

“I wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole if I saw myself in the backroom,” Brian laments, dropping his head back and dragging his hands down his cheeks.

Sighing, Justin sits and waits for Brian’s dramatics to come to a natural conclusion, as they always eventually do. When he finally heaves a massive sigh and flops onto his back, Justin leans over him and cups his cheek in his hand.

“What was I just saying about wanting to blow you?”

“Yeah, right before calling me disfigured.”

“ _Brian_ , you’re overreacting. You’d still be the sexiest one in the back room. And yeah, okay, the presentation is bad timing—”

Brian sighs and mutters, “Fuck.”

“—but you’ll be amazing as always, and you know you’ll end up twisting the rash to your advantage.” He grins down at Brian and mutters, “My genius ad man,” before sticking his tongue down Brian’s throat. He licks his tongue into Brian’s mouth and sucks on his bottom lip for a moment before pulling off and laughing. “Thank god your dick was spared though, huh? Imagine.”

Brian shivers violently and groans, “I’d rather not, thanks,” and, moment broken, he lets Justin help him lay on his stomach and get back to the original plan. Justin coats his back, his fingers whispering over the skin, not attempting any kind of massage because he knows how sensitive Brian’s skin is right now. When Brian flips onto his back, he closes his eyes, still insecure enough to refuse eye contact while Justin takes care of his stomach, chest, arms, neck, and cheek, and then he lets Justin sit him up and pull one of his oldest, softest t-shirts over his head, being careful not to smudge the lotion.

“Lay down on your back,” Justin instructs, getting up to throw the lotion-y bath sheet into the hamper and wash the calamine residue off his hands. When he gets back, he grabs the lube out of the nightstand, kneels between Brian’s spread legs, and squeezes some out into his hand, rubbing them together to warm it up and spread it out. He strokes Brian’s already slightly perked up cock a few times, smiling when it swells a bit more and gives a halfhearted lurch. But when he glances up at Brian’s face, he sees that his eyes are squeezed shut tight, and he doesn’t open them when Justin says, “Brian?”, worried that something is wrong.

“That feels—fuck, that feels good, Sunshine, but I’m not sure it’s going to work tonight. I’m just… my skin—”,

“Hey, it’s totally fine if it doesn’t, okay? But if it feels good, I’d like to try.”

Brian takes a deep breath and after visibly steeling himself, he opens his eyes and says, “Do your worst, Sunshine,” determined to at least _try_ to be a good sport and enjoy himself. And it _does_ feel good, how could it not?

Justin laughs and says, “I always do, darling,” while resuming stroking, and then he lowers his head to place a kiss on the head of Brian’s cock, which is by now, to their great relief, making a valiant effort to stand at attention. Justin breaks out some of his best moves, licking up the length of Brian’s hefty cock, kissing around the head, sucking it down and swallowing rhythmically, stroking the base, and liiiiightly scraping his nails up the underside of it in that way that makes Brian shiver and swear and fist his hand in Justin’s hair. He licks Brian’s balls and rolls them around in his hand, teases his perineum, and kisses and strokes the soft insides of his thighs, and Brian writhes beneath him, letting out guttural moans and swearing softly under his breath.

But despite his ministrations, and much to both of their disappointment, Justin eventually pulls off when he’s well and truly out of breath, and it’s clear that Brian won’t be getting fully hard any time soon. He’s a hot mess when he pulls off, his lips red and swollen, his chin and neck covered in spit, and there’s pink smudged into his hair where it brushed against the drying calamine lotion on Brian’s stomach. His eyes are teary and a little unfocused, and Brian doesn’t know if it’s from lust and exertion, or from Brian accidentally choking him a few times when he was seized by a sudden itch and squirmed or wriggled or bucked into Justin’s face without warning.

“Fuck, come here,” Brian says breathlessly, reaching for his dazed boyfriend and pulling him close when Justin collapses beside him. Justin flops one of his legs over Brian’s and settles his arm over his waist, and Brian hooks a finger under his chin and lifts, sweeping a searching gaze over his face. “How are your teeth? I didn’t mean to buck so hard that one time.”

Justin runs his tongue along his teeth before turning a smirk on Brian. “All good.” He chuckles softly but then sighs, the corners of his mouth turning down while he searches Brian’s flushed face. “I’m sorry that didn’t work. Seemed like it felt good, at least.” Justin runs his hand under his jaw and Brian winces, replaying in his mind when he’d jerked and plowed his thigh into Justin’s chin. Brian’s marked Justin up enough to know exactly how easily he bruises, and while he normally loves seeing his marks on that flawless skin, it’s not exactly sexy to leave your boyfriend looking like he’s been clocked in the jaw.

“Of course it felt good,” he snorts a laugh, “it’s too bad you can’t blow yourself, honestly. You have no fucking idea what you’re missing. I just…” he sighs. “First, I have this stupid fucking rash to deal with, and now I can’t even have a fucking orgasm. I’d like to know exactly who I pissed off and fuck him all better. And… I’m sorry I was a dick all day. I don’t… what you’re doing isn’t unappreciated.” 

Justin chuckles, “Well I appreciate the acknowledgement, but it’s not really necessary. You feel like shit, and you’re stressed about work, and it’s not like you don’t put up with my… slightly dramatic moments” – Brian huffs a laugh and Justin smirks – “when I’m sick. Remember when I had that awful sinus infection and I could barely tilt my head without falling over, and I ended up knocking the toast you’d made me off the counter and yelled at you? And you just cleaned it up, tucked my sorry ass in on the couch, and got me a washcloth for my eyes.”

Brian groans at the memory. “Oh yeah, that was a fun three days.”

Justin laughs, “I guess we’re even now,” and then rolls over Brian – “Oof, Sunshine!” – and lands on his feet on the far side of the bed. “I’ll clean us up and then let’s go to sleep, okay? Do you need more painkillers? Water? Anything?”

After dodging Brian’s piercing _I can take care of myfuckingself, thanks_ glare and cleaning up – there’d been a sort of ridiculous amount of spit and drool involved in the failed blowjob – turning on the fan, and crawling into bed, Justin says softly, “That’s where I got the idea, you know.”

“Hmm?” Brian asks sleepily, not opening his eyes.

“For the washcloths this morning. You did that for me when I had that sinus infection, and remember when I had that fever and you held a cool washcloth on the back of my neck, and I felt so much better? That’s where I got the idea. I get a lot of my good ideas from you.”

Justin watches Brian’s closed eyes crinkle as he smiles, and he whispers, “I am a genius, it’s true,” as he pulls Justin in closer. He turns his head to press a kiss to Justin’s temple and whispers, “Thank you, Sunshine.”

Justin smiles and leans into Brian’s warmth, listening to his breathing change as he falls asleep. He murmurs, “My pleasure,” and presses a kiss into Brian’s neck before rolling over, pushing his butt into Brian’s hip, and drifting off.

In the morning, after a thankfully uneventful night’s sleep, Justin has a stroke of genius while applying Brian’s now-routine post-shower slathering of calamine lotion.

Or so he thinks.

With Brian conveniently naked, standing spread eagle next to the bed and half hard thanks to his boyfriend’s gentle hands running all over his body (he’s only human, right?), Justin slides his calamine-slicked hand down Brian’s stomach and wraps it around his cock. Brian grunts and his eyes fly open, and the comically shocked look on his face draws a belly laugh from Justin.

“Mind if I try this?” Justin asks, wetting his bottom lip and letting his mouth fall open while he peers up at Brian through his eyelashes and gives his heavy cock a gentle squeeze. Brian shakes his head and licks his lips, and Justin gets to work, determined to give Brian his first orgasm in more than 48 hours, because holy fucking hell, this poor guy.

Justin pulls out all the stops like he did last night, launching into the handjob to end all handjobs. Encouragingly, Brian is rock hard in no time at all, and Justin pumps, squeezes, and flicks his wrist like his life depends on it. He strokes Brian’s thighs, plays with his balls, and rubs his perineum, occasionally trailing his fingers back to circle and press against his hole. A few minutes in, Brian is sweaty and barely able to hold himself upright, and he gasps out, “Christ, Justin, you’re going to need a fucking wrist brace after this,” and Justin lets out a burst of laughter.

_But._

Devastatingly.

Crushingly.

Justin’s only been pouring his heart and soul into what should have been the handjob of the century for another couple of minutes when Brian gasps loudly and doubles over, squeezing Justin’s shoulder so hard it hurts.

“STOP, STOP, JUSTIN, FUCK!” Brian yells in a strangled, breathless voice, yanking his hips backward.

They both listen in horror as Brian’s cock separates from Justin’s hand with a sickeningly loud _unsticking_ sound, like Velcro being pulled apart, and Justin, who had felt himself working harder as the lotion became tackier, looks from his pink palms to Brian’s (thankfully still attached to his body, but quite angrily swollen) cock with a frozen expression, before looking up to meet Brian’s horrified, teary gaze.

“You glued your hand to my cock,” Brian wheezes breathlessly, like he can’t believe what he’s saying.

“I—”

“YOU COULD HAVE RIPPED IT OFF!” Brian shouts, red faced and breathing hard, for an entirely different reason than he was thirty seconds ago.

“Come on—”

“YOU ALMOST SKINNED IT!”

“ _All right_ —"

“SERIOUSLY, WHAT IF YOU’D RIPPED THE SKIN OFF??”

“Brian!” Justin shouts, shaking Brian’s arm. “Shit, Brian, I didn’t realize it would dry that fast, it—it’s so creamy coming out of the tube!”

Brian huffs and pulls Justin’s hand off of his arm.

“FUCK, that hurt.”

“I’m—”

“And now it’s going to be all dried into my pubes, oh god,” Brian moans, pulling a face so heartbreakingly sad that Justin can’t stop his shoulders from shaking. Brian’s eyes snap to his and flash with anger.

_“How is this funny?”_

But his voice comes out unexpectedly high, and between that and the indignant look on his face, Justin loses the battle to keep the laughter inside.

Brian stands as still as a statue, taking stock of the situation. His upper body, cock, and balls are covered in patchy, crusty pink lotion, which is caked in his pubes and flaking onto the floor. Justin, two feet in front of him with his hands similarly crusted over, is shaking with laughter that he’s desperately trying to hold in, his face contorting absurdly as he tries to maintain a neutral expression.

Brian blinks a couple of times and grumbles, “You wouldn’t be laughing if you _had_ ripped the skin off and I couldn’t fuck you for months.”

But he smirks after a beat, and his lips twitch, and finally, he breaks out laughing too, doubling over before he turns a quarter circle and sits heavily on the edge of the bed, shaking with the ridiculousness of it all. “You asshole.”

“I didn’t know!”

“Fuck, that would have been the greatest fucking handjob of all time.”

Justin flashes a huge smile, winks, and gives a cheeky little half bow.

“If you hadn’t almost removed my most treasured appendage.”

“I thought _I_ was your most treasured appendage,” Justin says coyly, sitting down next to Brian and bumping against his shoulder.

Brian snorts and looks at him sideways. “Not the time, Sunshine.”

Justin just flashes him another huge, goofy smile, scrunching up his face, and just like he’s hoping for, he receives an answering smile and softening eyes from Brian.

“Seriously though, are you okay? Do you want me to… check it out?” Justin asks, glancing down at Brian’s now incredibly soft cock. (Turns out screeching about cocks getting ripped off really sucks the sexual energy out of a room. Who woulda thought.)

Brian palms his cock and runs his thumb over it lightly. “No, it’s fine.”

“So…”

Brian looks up expectantly when Justin trails off, still cradling his cock, and Justin licks his lips and forces his eyes back up to Brian’s face. 

“Should be shower? I’ll wash the uh, the lotion out of your pubes.”

“Gently,” Brian says, shooting Justin a look.

“Gently,” Justin laughs, and he jumps up, grabbing Brian’s hand and tugging him after him.

Justin turns on the water, setting it to a lukewarm-bordering-on-cool temperature that will be comfortable on Brian’s inflamed skin, but not set their teeth chattering. He lathers the unscented Dove soap in his hands and then swirls them soothingly over Brian’s skin, carefully washing the dried lotion off so he can start over with a fresh layer after the shower. While Brian shampoos, Justin kneels down and starts working on Brian’s pink-tinted pubes, carefully washing the very thickly matted curls (oops), and watching the streams of water running down Brian’s toned legs turn a faint pink as the lotion washes away.

He’s doing a final inspection of Brian’s perineum to check for any remaining traces of pink when Brian moans, so softly Justin doesn’t think he even realizes he’s done it, and Justin’s struck by another stroke of – well no, he’s not going to jinx himself by calling it a stroke of genius again – but he’s struck by a pretty fucking good idea.

He fiddles with the temperature controls to make sure the water is still comfortably cool, and then he grips Brian’s biceps to position him directly under the spray. Brian watches him without comment, apparently willing to go along with whatever Justin wants to try. Shockingly, frankly, considering they’re still recovering from what will become known as the Great Calamine Calamity (deemed thus by Emmett, who will thereafter recount the tale with appropriate dramatics at every subsequent holiday party), and Brian is still a little jumpy.

Justin hesitates for a moment, eyeing the river of water coursing off Brian’s penis, realizing how difficult this is going to be, but resigning himself to this being the only way Brian will be itch-free long enough for this to work, and Justin is determined to get his boyfriend off, dammit. With 48 hours and two botched attempts under their belts, Justin is beginning to be personally offended by how much trouble he’s having bringing the stud of Liberty Avenue to orgasm.

Enough. Is. Enough.

So he gathers his courage, kneels back down, and goes at it full force. No easing in, no teasing; he sucks Brian right down to the root and immediately starts fondling his balls, stroking his thighs, and rubbing his perineum with just the right amount of pressure. Brian groans and lets his head fall back, all logical reason abandoning him at the ferocity of Justin’s assault.

Abandoning him, that is, until he inhales a lungful of water and starts sputtering and choking, his eyes popping open and his lungs screaming for air as his hands flail out, seeking Justin’s shoulders to steady himself.

Justin pulls off for a second when he hears the commotion, and though he can barely keep his eyes open thanks to the torrent of water raining down on him, he raises his voice to be heard over the rushing water and calls, “You okay up there?” He grips one of Brian’s hands where it’s clutching his shoulder and gives it a squeeze.

“Keep going,” Brian sputters, his chest heaving, and he squeezes Justin’s shoulder and moves him back toward his cock, because damnit, it’s been two days, and his boyfriend is putting a heroic amount of effort into pleasing him, and he’s done nothing but try to help Brian feel better all weekend. He’s at least as determined as Justin to see this thing to completion, because for fuck’s sake, there is _no way_ he fucked up so badly in a past life that he actually deserves this hellish double whammy of being sexually frustrated at the same time that he’s walking around with a gruesome rash. There’s just. no. way.

(And might he be forgiven for being a tad melodramatic in this moment? Yes, yes he might.)

Ever the fast learner, Brian keeps his head tipped down and his hands on Justin’s shoulders, which has the added benefit of shielding Justin slightly from the onslaught pounding down on Brian’s back. Which is a relief, because even though Brian’s sheltering position is helping, Justin is struggling not to aspirate too much water as it rolls down Brian’s cock and directly down his throat. He redoubles his efforts when he begins to question how much longer he can actually go before he’s really struggling to breathe, sucking Brian like a vacuum, massaging his cock with his tongue, and using the hand not gripping Brian’s thigh to cup and lightly scratch his balls in just the way he likes.

When he feels Brian’s balls draw up and hears him suck in a breath, Justin reaches back and presses a knuckle up hard into his perineum, wrenching a gasping cry out of him as he comes down Justin’s throat, his hot, thick come replacing the water momentarily. Justin sucks hard until Brian runs dry, and then he quickly pulls off and stands up, grabbing Brian under his armpits and easing him back against the wall before his shaking legs go out from under him. He lets himself slide to the shower floor, Justin’s grip ensuring a soft landing.

Justin crouches in front of him, unable to keep the extremely self-satisfied grin off his face even as he works to catch his breath, and he gently brushes Brian’s hair back while he waits for him to open his eyes. When he finally does, he laughs breathlessly at the excited grin lighting up Justin’s face, loving how happy it’s made Justin to _finally_ get him off.

“Fuck, Sunshine. I think you sucked all the strength out of me.”

Justin keeps grinning like a fool. “You feel good?”

Brian laughs. “You could say that.”

Justin quickly turns to wash the mess off his face and then he pulls Brian to his feet, steadies him when he wobbles, and tows him out of the shower. He wraps them both in towels and then settles Brian on the bed before grabbing the accursed calamine lotion and a glass of water for Brian to rehydrate. While Brian gulps the water down, Justin smooths the lotion over the angry red rash, over the sea of tiny pustules, and he’s surprised by the rush of emotion that hits him while he works over the marred skin.

He looks up and meets Brian’s eyes, which are watching him with mild amusement, as if he knows what Justin is feeling, and he wonders briefly what his annoyingly expressive face is doing. But then Brian’s stomach lets out a loud growl, and he laughs and slaps Brian lightly on the cheek.

“Let’s go to the diner for lunch, huh? You’ll have to face everyone eventually.”

Still naked, Justin saunters back into the bathroom to wash his hands, wiggling his ass tauntingly while Brian sits glued to the bed staring after him, his eyes glazing over and his cock perking right back up. Got to make up for lost time, right?

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


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